Dear Agony
by InkAndPens394
Summary: Post His Last Vow AU-Mystrade, Mormor, Johnlock Rated M for adult themes. Sherlock tried to convince himself that the moisture on his face was from the rain. He was not crying; he was Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes did not cry. Please review; I love reviews!:-D
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Post His Last Vow AU-Johnlock, Mystrade, Mormor-AU following the events of His Last Vow, John is still struggling to accept Mary's betrayal and Moriarty's return, Sherlock is keeping his distance from his former flat mate, something's strange about Moriarty's behaviour, and why is Lestrade spending the night at Mycroft's?**_  
_**I don't own Sherlock since I am not Moffat. This is rated M for a reason; there is a fair amount of cursing also if you don't like M rated gay ships you really shouldn't be reading this, otherwise, enjoy!**_  
_**-Dalek**_

_Somewhere far beyond this world_  
_I feel nothing anymore_

_Dear Agony_  
_Just let go of me_  
_Suffer slowly_  
_Is this the way it's gotta be?_  
_Don't bury me_  
_Faceless enemy_  
_I'm so sorry_  
_Is this the way it's gotta be?_  
_Dear Agony_

Sebastian Moran was stalking his prey through cavernous rooms of an old house in London. Ahead he heard a floorboard creak and smiled slightly, mistakes like stepping on a loose floorboard generally cost his targets their lives. Of course, he generally preferred to set up his rifle at a distance; if Moran was staring at someone through the sight of his rifle that person would never know what hit them. This was not an ordinary situation however, and Sebastian reflected grimly that Jim Moriarty would most definitely not approve of his general tactic at this particular moment.

To tell the truth Sebastian was beginning lose his taste for the hunt; at this particular moment he would rather be listening to the steady, deep breaths of his partner beside him in bed, instead he was cold and extremely cross. Damn Jim anyway, just because he couldn't sleep shouldn't mean that Sebastian had to give up a night's rest.

Moran slipped through a door that was hanging half off its hinges and nearly collided with a dark figure. He cursed loudly.

"Language, darling." Jim Moriarty switched on a torch the light half blinding Moran.

"Oh, it's darling now, is it? Do you have any fucking idea how worried I was; I should shoot you." To tell the truth Sebastian was seriously considering violence to be an option, if for no other reason than to wipe the smirk of Jim's handsome face.

"There's no need to be rude. I didn't ask you to follow me. In fact, you shouldn't be here." There was something very wrong about this situation. The fact that Jim had been slipping out in the middle of the night was disturbing enough, but thinking that Seb wouldn't follow him eventually was even worse. The criminal mastermind was up to something; Sebastian could sense it, and he obviously didn't want his sniper involved.

Sebastian's anger evaporated into concern; since Jim's return after his supposed death there had been no secrets between them. They were making plans to disappear, hoping to find somewhere quiet where they could live their lives in peace. If Jim was keeping secrets again he must have a very good reason.  
Jim kicked a half rotten crate towards Sebastian. "You're here, so you might as well sit down." He sank down on an old chair that looked like it might collapse at any second and put his head in his hands.

Seb gave the crate a dubious look and decided he was better off sitting on the floor. They sat in silence for what seemed to be an eternity before Jim spoke.

"I don't know what to do. Do you have any idea how that feels? I always know what to do; I always have a plan, I always think five steps ahead of everyone else, and I don't know what to do." He laughed, a trace of hysteria entering his voice. "Of course you don't know; you're ordinary."

As much as he wanted to punch Jim for his last remark Sebastian knew it wouldn't do any good. He needed to stay calm and figure out what the hell was wrong; this wasn't like Jim, or maybe it was, he'd disappeared for two years. Maybe he wasn't the man Sebastian remembered. Sebastian stayed silent, knowing Jim would explain eventually.

"I'd kill her now if thought she didn't-if I thought she wouldn't-damn her!"

"Who?" Sebastian crossed the room to kneel beside Jim, putting his hands on his shaking shoulders. "The same person who tried to make you kill yourself?"

Jim nodded, the motion almost imperceptible in the gloom and Sebastian felt a rising fury threaten to consume him. "Who is she? I'll kill her myself, just tell me who I need to drop to get you free of this!"

Jim raised his head, his eyes meeting Sebastian's desperately. "You don't understand; I'm not the one in danger. I'm sorry; I'm so sorry. Please, don't leave me."

Sebastian was furious, he hated whoever had done this to his kitten with a vengeance, but he pushed it back; that wasn't important. Anger wouldn't help Jim; not now. He put an arm around Jim's shoulders and gentle slipped him off the chair and pulled him in until Jim's head was resting against his chest; tears soaking through the fabric of his shirt.

"I'm not going anywhere." And he meant it, even if not going anywhere meant he would be spending the night on a cold, filthy floor. "Next time, do you think you could have a mental breakdown on the floor of our bedroom instead?"

Seb heard a weak chuckle as Jim's arms wrapped around him. "Anything for you, tiger."

* * *

"Mary, I'm just going out for a walk; you need anything?" John paused for the acceptable amount of time to await his wife's response before pulling on his coat and escaping into the relative peace of the street. He had to get away, even if it was only for a few minutes. He was trying, really, he was, but Mary's presence was slowly suffocating him. She'd lied to him for months; their relationship was a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode and destroy everyone involved. Maybe that was why Sherlock was avoiding him, or maybe Sherlock had given up on attempting to continue their friendship.

How could John seriously expect Sherlock to be in the same room as the woman who had nearly killed him? But he was the one who convinced John not to give up on Mary; after everything he had risked for them surely Sherlock knew John wanted him to be a part of their lives. But that was a lie; John didn't want Sherlock to be a part of their lives; he wanted Sherlock to be a part of _his _life.

He knew Sherlock was trying to give him a chance to live a life of his choosing; it obviously had never occurred to the socially awkward genius that John had chosen this life thinking Sherlock was dead. Everything was different now that Sherlock had returned and if John could have taken back his decision he would have done so in an instant. But he couldn't take it back; Mary was pregnant and John couldn't abandon her now, couldn't walk out on his unborn child.

The streets were relatively quiet, it just past 6:00 A.M., and John was alone with his thoughts; that was not a particularly good thing. Sherlock's face rose unbidden to his mind; the memory of his agonized expression when he pulled John out of Magnussen's bonfire was the only thing keeping John from taking a cab to Baker Street. Sherlock was convinced that, as long as John was near him, he was putting his friend in danger. John was inclined to disagree; he was never safer than when Sherlock was protecting him, but the memory of Sherlock's terror haunted him. He couldn't make Sherlock go through that again, couldn't take the risk of being hurt and Sherlock blaming himself. It was best he kept his distance.

If he couldn't talk to Sherlock at least he could find out if there was any news on Moriarty's whereabouts. Sherlock might be off limits as a source of information, but Mycroft was fair game. He hailed a cab and automatically hesitated, waiting for Sherlock to brush past him, expecting to see his dark head lean against the window, eyes closed in contemplation of some problem. God, he missed Sherlock, in a way this was worse than thinking he was dead; knowing he was near but so far away.

"Oi, mate! You in or out?" The cabbie glared at him.

John gave him an apologetic smile and climbed into the cab; alone.

John was more than a little surprised to see Lestrade's car in the driveway of Mycroft's flat, and even more surprised to see the detective himself hurrying down the steps while pulling on his jacket.

John raised a hand in greeting and thought he saw Lestrade's expression change to something resembling guilt. "Everything alright, Greg?"

Lestrade gave him a wide-eyed look comparable to that of a cornered deer. "What? Oh-um-yeah, everything's fine. Completely fine, nothing to worry about. There-there was a break-in, nothing serious; all taken care of."

John frowned, taking in the good inspector's slightly rumpled attire; his tie was hanging loose around his neck, the white dress shirt he wore was only half buttoned, and his short hair was extremely ruffled; he looked like he only just woken up.

"I didn't realize break-ins were your department." Something was very…off about Lestrade's demeanor.

"Oh-um-" Lestrade glanced over his shoulder as if expecting Mycroft to appear and interrupt what seemed to be a very difficult conversation. "I was in the neighbourhood, so I just thought I might as well-anyway, nice seeing you John; I have to get to work. I mean back to work-I mean I'm obviously working now-I have to go."

John watched as he half ran to his car. That had been odd, to say the least, but analyzing the behaviour of Scotland Yard detectives wasn't particularly high on John's to-do list. Odder still, however, was the fact that Mycroft Holmes answered the door, wearing his dressing gown, at half past eight in the morning. It was definitely not John's job to psychoanalyze Sherlock's older brother, but John had never seen Mycroft wear anything other than a suit, and he was smiling. _What the hell?_

Ten minutes later Mycroft was dressed in his customary suit sipping a cup of tea and any sign that he had ever smiled in his life was hidden behind his normal, unreadable expression.

"So, I heard there was a break-in?" John was desperate to break the slightly awkward silence.

The corner of Mycroft's mouth twitched as he set down his teacup. "I presume you met Gregory as he was leaving."

_Gregory?_ John hadn't realized Greg was on a first name basis with the British Government; the thought was slightly unnerving.

"You're concerned about my brother." Apparently Mycroft didn't want to discuss Lestrade or the apparent break-in. John was relieved; he was slowly putting two and two together and coming up with five and it was giving him a headache.

"Actually, I just thought I'd ask if you had any news about Moriarty."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. "You could have phoned."

"Yes, but-" _But what? I couldn't handle being in the same building as the woman who almost killed my best friend any longer? I need to know if Sherlock's alright? I want to know if he's thinking about me?_

John took a deep breath and decided to be completely, painfully honest with Mycroft.

* * *

"Sherlock, we need to talk about John." Sherlock's fingers ceased their fluid movement along the neck of his violin; cutting the music off abruptly. Mycroft saw his shoulders tense before he tossed the instrument aside and turned towards his brother with an unreadable expression.

"What about John? I have nothing to say." His voice was the detective's cold, concise tone; betraying nothing of the tenderness Mycroft had grown accustomed to hearing when John was mentioned.

Mycroft sipped his tea, grimaced when it tasted nothing like tea was meant to and searched for a place to set his cup. The flat was a mess and it was obvious that Sherlock was in one of his moods again. Mrs. Hudson would probably consider killing him when she saw the state of the room.

For the first time in weeks Mycroft actually looked at his brother; his eyes probing past Sherlock's mask of indifference, demanding to see what lay below. He saw the dark circles under his eyes, heard the almost undetectable tremor in his voice, and realized in an instant that his brother was far from indifferent. Oh dear.

If Mycroft had not experienced similar attacks of sentiment he would have found it difficult to recognize the signs in Sherlock. He felt a momentary flash of guilt at this realization; how many times had Sherlock retreated into his mind, hiding all signs of perceived weakness from a brother who had taught him that caring was not an advantage?

Mycroft sighed and decided that secrecy was the best policy, at least for the moment. "Really, brother dear," he remarked in a scathing tone. "When will you learn to respect his feelings?"

A brief flash of anger crossed Sherlock's face before he turned away from his brother and started pacing in front of the window occasionally stopping to pull aside the curtain and stare down into the street.

"I am respecting John's feelings," he said at last, his voice still perfectly calm. "I have allowed his wife to remain free despite every dictate of logic and reason which demand I do otherwise. John chose Mary as his wife and I am respecting his feelings on the matter. What more can you possibly expect? Do you expect me to care if he's miserable because of that choice? 'Caring is not an advantage'."

Mycroft flinched to hear his own words flung back at him by Sherlock's cold voice. He hated to admit that he was wrong, but this time it was imperative that he convince Sherlock that following his advice was a grave mistake.

"Has it occurred to you that, perhaps, John would have altered his choice if presented with all the facts?"

Sherlock was staring down, into the rain-soaked street, and for a moment Mycroft wondered if he was still aware of his presence. "I revealed the facts; I showed him that Mary was a killer and when he chose to do nothing I protected her. Perhaps you were right, Mycroft; marriage does change everything."

Mycroft sighed and made an effort to speak in a more gentle voice. "Sherlock, I did say all the facts. If John knew-"

Sherlock turned on him in sudden fury, effectively cutting off his words. "_You_ have no right to lecture _me_ about love!"

The door slammed before Mycroft even realized Sherlock was gone.

"That went well," he remarked to the empty flat.

* * *

Greg was not expecting the British Government to walk into his office. Mycroft was generally cautious about meeting in public and Lestrade was inclined to be grateful for this; he didn't particularly want Donovan finding out that he was dating Sherlock's brother. He frowned when Mycroft perched on the edge of a chair and regarded Greg with an expression comparable to that of the grim reaper. This should be interesting.

"We need to tell Sherlock."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Hello, Mycroft, how is your day? Mine is fine, thank you for asking. What can I do for you?" He crossed the room and shut his office door in Donovan's face; ignoring her murderous glare.

Mycroft spun his ever present umbrella between his hands and sighed. "My dear Detective Inspector, why must you always find it necessary to make small talk?"

Greg sighed, manners were not Mycroft's forte. "Alright, down to business then; what do we need to tell Sherlock?"

"I need to convince him I was wrong." That was a sentence Greg never expected to hear from Mycroft.

"Sorry, could you just say that again?"

"Gregory, this is a serious conversation. I told my brother that caring is not an advantage and he has, for the first time in his life, admitted I was right. You have proved to me that I could not have been more wrong and I need to convince Sherlock."

Displays of sentiment, like admitting that Greg proved him wrong, were rare for Mycroft and Lestrade was having a very hard time not ripping Mycroft's clothes off right then, except they were in his office and having sex on the floor probably wasn't professional. Still, he was having a very difficult time concentrating on anything but the memory of Mycroft's hands sliding over his skin; their bodies pressed together, the warmth of skin sliding against skin-Ok, concentrate, serious conversation.

Mycroft cleared his throat, obviously annoyed by Greg's lapse of attention. "Right, sorry; you want to tell Sherlock about us, don't you?" So, maybe Greg wasn't a genius, but he was smart enough to realize what Mycroft was thinking.

Mycroft shifted, looking uncomfortable and twirled his umbrella nervously between his long fingers. "We both knew someone would find out eventually; perhaps it would be more sensible to…come out of the closet, so to speak."

Greg considered the circumstances for a moment; it had originally been Mycroft's idea to keep their relationship a secret and Greg had been more than happy to oblige. Now though, if knowing that his pragmatic brother cared for someone could help Sherlock…

"Does this have anything to do with the fact that John is still with Mary?" Lestrade had immediately Sherlock withdrawing into himself after he had killed Magnussen, but he suspected it had more to do with John's continued marriage than the fact that he had killed a man in cold blood. Greg had known Sherlock too long not to recognize his pain at seeing the man he loved with someone else especially when it was obvious to anyone with half a brain that John was eternally and undeniably Sherlock's.

Mycroft apparently interpreted Greg's silence as reluctance. "Gregory, I'm sorry to put you in this position. I know many of your co-workers may not understand or respect our relationship; if you will feel ashamed-"

Greg was not about to allow Mycroft to finish that sentence. "Nothing ever will or ever could make me ashamed of the way I feel about you." Greg interrupted fiercely. "I love you, Mycroft Holmes, and I refuse to give that up; ever."

Mycroft moved faster than Greg believed him capable of and a second later he was pinned against his desk with Mycroft's lips pressed hard against his. His blood was on fire; he pulled Mycroft closer, passion and longing made him wild. Mycroft's hands slid under his shirt, fingers digging painfully into Greg's back. Pain and exhilaration mixed in a deadly cocktail. This was heaven; this was hell. Mycroft Holmes, what have you done to me?

They were woven together in an irrevocable tangle, bodies pressed together, lips interlocked; hungry, passionate, trying to pull each other closer still, as if to become a single soul, a single beating heart; united eternally.

Greg's coffee cup fell off his desk with a crash that both were unaware of, at least, until Donovan burst in the sound of the shattering ceramic obviously having caught her attention. Reality flooded back in and they broke apart, suddenly, painfully aware of the reason the avoided meeting in public.

This had been inevitable; Greg always knew someone would find out, but why the bloody freaking hell did it have to be Donovan? Her expression was a mixture of disgust and glee as her eyes swept over the scene; the coffee cup shattered on the floor, Greg's half unbuttoned shirt, Mycroft's rumpled suit and the hand he was keeping pressed against Greg's back. Lestrade was unutterably glad of Mycroft's supporting hand as he faced his sergeant; they could get through this, then Donovan decided to open her mouth.

"Never thought I'd catch you shagging freak's big brother." She smiled, obviously enjoying the situation. "Though, I always said he was a-" She never got the chance to finish because that was the moment that Gregory Lestrade lost control and not even Mycroft could stop him.

* * *

Sherlock was barely keeping it together. He felt slightly guilty about running out on Mycroft, but what did his brother expect? Was he supposed to stand there and listen to Mycroft scold him for loving John?

"All hearts are broken, Sherlock; caring is not an advantage." And fuck it all, Mycroft was right. The heart Sherlock didn't believe he had was breaking; had broken, was lying in shattered pieces on the paving stones in front of Bart's. He should have died there, and, in every way that mattered he had. It would have been better to end his miserable existence then, than to live in a world where John was no longer beside him.

Two years; two fucking years, and the only thing that had kept him going was the memory of John and the hope of seeing him again someday. _Idiot._ John didn't want him back, would have preferred him to stay dead, but he couldn't let go.

His traitorous feet led him through the myriad of rain soaked streets, time slipping past him in a meaningless blur, until he found himself standing across the street from John's new flat. This was ridiculous, an absurd display of sentiment not to mention endangering to John. He should go; he should turn around, hail a cab and go home, but he couldn't. Baker Street wasn't home; John was home and Sherlock had lost him.

What was he thinking? What good could he possibly do by coming here? _Hello Mary, don't mind me; I've just come to kiss your husband before I blow my brains out? Hello John, I love you, I need you? Fucking idiot!_ Sherlock Holmes, self proclaimed genius, self diagnosed sociopath, in love?

The rain was coming down in a steady drizzle and as Sherlock turned away he tried to convince himself that the moisture on his face was from the rain. He was not crying; he was Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes did not cry.

* * *

Jim was going insane, at least, more insane than usual. He'd over slept, which wasn't particularly surprising considering the fact that he'd completely lost control the night before, but the fact that he'd ended up sobbing against Seb's chest was not what was making him crazy. No, he was going insane because when he woke up Sebastian was nowhere to be found and in his place was printed note.

_If you want your pet sniper back finish the job_

He crumpled the paper in his hand, his whole body shaking._ I'm sorry; Sebastian, I'm so sorry_. Terror and rage threatened to overtake him. Never again; Jim Moriarty was done following orders, was finished playing the part of the villain. It was time for the truth in a life of lies; it was time for the world to know that the greatest criminal mastermind of the century was nothing more than a brilliant, sometimes psychopathic, puppet.

_Finish the job? Like hell. You took him and you will pay for that._ Jim's mind was still one of the greatest in the world and he knew his options didn't end with mindless obedience. She'd gone to far by taking Seb; she'd declared war and Jim wasn't about to fight alone, so he forced down the insane rage and focused on the terror letting it sweep over him as he stepped out into the mid-morning crowd.

He was getting Sebastian back; he had to, by whatever means necessary. Children shouldn't play with grenades and flies shouldn't try to trap spiders.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't surprised when the doorbell ringing was followed by a scream from Mrs. Hudson. He'd been expecting Moriarty for weeks, and at least if Moriarty decided to engage in another battle of wits with him it would take his mind off John.

"You were supposed to be dead," Sherlock enjoyed small talk even less than his brother.

"Love what you've done with the place," he tossed a pile of papers into the air and watched as they cascaded down around him before half throwing himself onto the sofa.

Sherlock casually slipped a hand into the pocket of his dressing gown as he studied the criminal. Something about Moriarty had changed since they last met; something that could not be accounted for by time alone.

"You know, Sherlock, it's a dangerous habit to keep a loaded firearm in your pocket." Moriarty's eyes were following Sherlock's every movement with catlike intensity and something else which could have been desperation. "I didn't come here to kill you."

"Really? Do you plan to make me shoot myself this time?"_ Not that I haven't considered that anyway_. "Care for a cup of tea?" Sherlock didn't wait for a reply as he moved into the kitchen and put the kettle on, not even hesitating to turn his back to his greatest enemy. If Moriarty wanted to kill him why should he try to live?

"Sherlock, I need your help." Silence except for the clock ticking off seconds and when Sherlock did speak his voice was devoid of any emotion.

"Why?" Sherlock turned to face the world's only consulting criminal and immediate realized what had changed. Moriarty's outward demeanor was nonchalant but Sherlock could sense a flood of emotions threatening to break through his calm mask.

"If someone you care for was being threatened, what lengths would you go to ensure their safety, Sherlock? Would you come to me for help if it would save John's life?"

Sherlock didn't respond immediately. He moved to the window and pushed the heavy drape aside; resuming his habit of staring down at the stream of people passing on the street. "You know I would do anything to protect the people I love." His voice was ice but Moriarty didn't flinch; didn't back down. "You used that knowledge against me; I lost everything because you didn't know when to admit defeat, so tell me; why would I help you?"

"Because you understand what it means to die for someone you love. Because we both know what it is like to spend our lives hiding from the world, terrified that someone will see past the mask of indifference we build. You understand, Sherlock; you know how it feels to find that one person, that extraordinarily ordinary person, who can look into your soul, see you for who you really are, and not turn away in horror, and then to have them torn away from you."

"Does this extraordinarily ordinary person have a name?" Sherlock's tone was scathing, but internally he was fighting for control. This was not what he needed. He needed a case, an escape, not a lovesick criminal.

"Sebastian Moran, and I am in love with him. Sherlock, please, you and I are alike in so many ways; when we love we love entirely. Everything we are becomes tied to those we love; we love with our souls and not our hearts alone. Please, don't let me lose the one thing that makes living in this cold, dark world bearable."

Moriarty's voice broke on the last words an as Sherlock studied Moriarty's reflection in the glass of the window he saw him reach up to brush away a tear. Sentiment is a quality found in the losing side. But who was he, Sherlock Holmes, to judge another by the standards he had fallen short of in himself?

"Who took him and why?"

"Mary Watson; because I didn't succeed in killing you."

But Sherlock only registered hearing the first two words; Mary Watson, formerly Mary Morstan, assassin, killer, and John's pregnant wife.

* * *

Greg stared down at his hands, memorizing every streak of blood, every scrape across his knuckles. He was vaguely surprised they hadn't cuffed him, but he couldn't bring himself to regret his actions. Donovan had crossed a line Greg hadn't known was there, but he had snapped and he didn't care. He had no illusions that he would be leaving this room as a free man; attacking a co-worker was bad enough, the fact that Donovan hadn't been moving when they finally managed to restrain him was worse, but it was the fear in Mycroft's eyes not the image of Donovan's unmoving form that haunted him.

He didn't look up when the door to the interview room swung open; didn't react to the approaching footsteps, didn't seem to notice the presence of another human being until a very familiar hand landed on his shoulder.

"I'm taking you home." Lestrade didn't bother to question how; when Mycroft's voice took on that commanding quality there was nothing anyone could do except what he told them to.

Greg pulled on his jacket and stood unsteadily. "Mycroft-"

"Shut up, Gregory," but there was no anger in Mycroft's voice, if anything there was concern and Greg was extremely surprised when the British Government put an arm around his shoulders as they walked out of the room. A moment later he understood; Mycroft was afraid so Greg stayed silent and let Mycroft guide him through the maze of his co-workers' hostile stares.

Once they were back at Mycroft's flat Greg sighed and decided it was time to figure out just how bad his situation was. Mycroft answered his question before he had time to ask.

"Donovan will be fine once she gets out of the hospital; she won't be pressing charges." Mycroft sank into the nearest chair with a sigh. "You also don't have a job to go back to; the commissioner wanted to, how did he put it? 'Lock you up and throw away the key,' but apparently he didn't want his wife to see some very interesting footage involving a secretary."

"Mycroft, I-"

"Don't ever do that again."

Lestrade frowned, slightly confused by the sudden desperation in Mycroft's voice. "Do what?"

"Protect me. They wanted to lock you up, Gregory; they wanted to take you away from me."

"I'm not going anywhere, except to dinner; with you."

* * *

"Mary Morstan paid me to become your nemesis, Sherlock. That's how it started. She wanted me to keep you busy, and it was fun; until she got boring and wanted me to kill you. I never killed anyone before she hired me, Sherlock. Dead people are boring, it's much more fun to get inside their heads; to control until they kill themselves. Then she started threatening me; told if I didn't kill you, she'd kill Seb."

"You knew." Moriarty's behaviour on the rooftop had never quite made sense to Sherlock until that moment. "You knew I'd fake my death; you were counting on it"

"I knew I might need you someday. Then I faked my death and she thought she'd won, until you came back."

"And then you had to come back too or she would have killed Martin." Sherlock was beginning to recognize the extent of Mary's brilliance and it was almost frightening.

"Moran." Moriarty glared at Sherlock like he was reconsidering asking for his help.

"What?" Sherlock's mind was already filling in a hundred different reasons why Mary had wanted him dead before they'd even met, but none of them quite added up, especially considering that she'd nearly killed him only a few months ago but hadn't.

"Why does she want me dead?"

"Ah, Sherlock, I'm a psychopath; I don't ask my clients questions. She has plans and you have a nasty habit of interfering with people's plans; that's all I know." He glanced pointedly at his watch. "Speaking of plans, what's yours? I hope you have one, otherwise I'll have to kill you."

"I need to have a talk with Mary. Stay here for ten minutes, then follow me."

"What are you going to do?"

Sherlock flashed Moriarty a brilliantly fake smile. "I'm going to save Seth. He pulled on his coat and slammed the door behind him before Moriarty had time to realize he was gone. Jim immediately considered following him, but he had trust Sherlock; he didn't have a choice.

"It's Seb, not Seth," he muttered to the skull above the fireplace; the skull remained silent.

* * *

Sherlock didn't want to believe that Mary was still playing him; she was pregnant with John's child and the realization that she was still lying to him would likely destroy John. Sherlock did have a plan; he was going to end this. If she wanted to kill it would cost her; she would have to agree to never tell John the truth. it was better that he continue believing a lie than realize his wife had never loved him.

_I will always protect you, John. _That was the promise Sherlock made and that was the promise he would keep until the end.

He somehow knew Mary would be waiting for him and he knew where. She would have known that Moriarty would come to him for help and she was intelligent enough to guess his response. She would be at the flat she shared with John, waiting for her final, crowning triumph.

He climbed the stairs two at a time and didn't bother to knock at the door. She was in the dining room with her back to the door completely at ease knowing that Sherlock could not bring himself to kill her.

"Mary." She turned and smiled at Sherlock and for a moment a flicker of doubt crossed his mind. She didn't look like a criminal mastermind; she looked like John's wife and her hand was resting almost protectively over her stomach an ever present reminder of the life growing inside her. The doubt vanished when Sherlock looked past her and saw a half-conscious man tied to a chair.

_Ex-military, weapons specialist, late thirties; Sebastian Moran. _Moriarty was telling the truth.

"Sherlock!" The smile didn't fade from her face and her voice was warm and welcoming. "I'm so glad you could make it; I was worried something had happened to you! I don't think you've met my guest." Moran mumbled a curse around the dishcloth she'd gagged him with.

"Mary, why?" Sherlock edged farther into the room his mind already running through possible scenarios for escape.

"Why not?" Sherlock stopped when he found a gun pointed at his chest. "Why shouldn't I want to kill you? You must have enemies, Sherlock. People like you don't have anyone but enemies; you never know when to keep your mouth shut, you never know when to stop, so why shouldn't I hate you? Maybe you remember my father? You should; he's dead because of you; because you didn't save him, because his life was less important than you showing off. He's dead because 'that's what people do'! People die!"

"Or maybe it wasn't my father who died; maybe it was my sister. Maybe she died screaming because you didn't care. Or maybe it was my husband; maybe trying to save him wasn't interesting enough for you; it doesn't matter why. What matters is that I watch you die."

"Mary?" Sherlock closed his eyes and hoped against hope that he was wrong and it wasn't John's voice._ Please, not John; don't let him see this._ "What's going on?" It was John, looking bewildered and hurt; staring at his wife in shock; he didn't seem to notice the fact that Moriarty's boyfriend was tied up in his dining room.

"You're home early, dear! Sorry about the mess;" She motioned towards Moran. "You've met our guest, haven't you? Sorry, he's tied up right now; I wasn't expecting you." Her voice hardened and she glared at John with a look of pure loathing.

"Sebatian...Moran?" Sherlock heard the frown in John's voice. "We served together in Afghanistan. Mary, what the hell did you do?"

Sherlock was avoiding looking at John, instead concentrating on the problem of getting Moran free before Mary snapped and killed someone or before Moriarty turned up. A moment later he realized the sniper already had his hands free and was only waiting for an opportunity move; he felt a grudging respect for Moriarty's choice of partner.

"Sherlock?" It was agony not to respond to John's plea, but Sherlock couldn't. If he looked at John now he would break, shatter into a million irreparable fragments.

"I'm sorry, John, this must be quite a shock for you." Mary's smile became a sneer. "You thought I'd given everything up; for you. That's cute, but you were only ever a means to an end. This end; Sherlock's end. "

"Mary, please, I know I haven't-I've been angry with you, but please, don't do this." Sherlock glanced at John for the briefest second; long enough to see that his eyes were not fixed on Mary's face, but on her swollen stomach. Mary obvious was also aware of this.

"Oh that's right, you want me stop. You want to be a father, don't you? Well I'm sorry, honey, I may be pregnant but don't fool yourself into thinking the baby is yours. You were always going to find out about my little secret and I needed some way of keeping you around for this; the grand finale."

Sherlock tensed when he heard footsteps on the stairs; Moriarty had arrived and he was out of time. He'd misjudged Mary again, she didn't just want to kill him, she wanted to hurt John; she wanted to destroy him. It didn't matter Sherlock what Moriarty did now; the damage was done, the secret was out, and John's was crashing down. Except, John wasn't trying to deny Mary's words, wasn't begging her to say it wasn't true.

Sherlock risked taking his eyes off Mary and the gun she was still aiming at his chest and saw a look of pure relief on John's face. When he looked back at Mary she was frowning and her finger was slowly tightening on the gun's trigger. Sherlock counted the seconds until oblivion.

_Five, four, three, two-_

Three gunshots shattered the silence in almost perfect unison and Mary collapsed in a pool of blood.

* * *

John lowered his gun slowly still trying to process why there had been a third shot. Mary's shot had gone wild when John's bullet tore through her arm, he hadn't been aiming to kill, and was currently lodged in the wall, but a third bullet had torn through her heart and John didn't have to check for a pulse to know she was dead, but who had fired the bullet?

"Hello John, miss me?" that was a voice that haunted his worse nightmares; nightmares of watching Sherlock fall from the roof of Bart's. _Moriarty. _He didn't think as he raised the gun again, ready to kill the man who had caused him and Sherlock so much pain, barely registering that Moriarty was the one who killed Mary.

"John," Sherlock's voice held a note of warning that John couldn't understand. He didn't seem concerned by Moriarty's presence, in fact he seemed rather interested in keeping the criminal alive. It didn't matter; everything that had happened was Moriarty's fault. If it hadn't been for him John would never have met Mary, Sherlock would not have left, and there might have been a chance that-But it didn't matter. Moriarty deserved to die for what he'd done.

"Stand down, soldier." John had forgotten about Moran; he had been puzzled by the man's presence but hadn't given the matter much thought, but he responded to the order without thinking. He had fought beside Moran Afghanistan, had kept him alive when a bullet tore through his leg and he was bleeding out, but he hadn't thought about his former friend in years.

Moriarty used John's momentary distraction to push past John and half tackle Moran, who had somehow untied himself. John dropped the gun altogether and stared at them.

"Sherlock, are they...kissing?" But there was no response from the world's only consulting detective and when John turned to ask him what the hell was going on he was gone and the door was closing behind him

* * *

John wanted nothing more than to talk to Sherlock; unfortunately, Sherlock was avoiding him. John didn't know what to do; life's tenuous hold on sanity seemed to have slipped, sending him spinning down into a chaotic, frightening darkness.

The Police were still sorting through Mary's things even though it had been nearly a week wince her death, friends were calling and offering sympathy and questions John didn't know how to answer, but more upsetting Sherlock wasn't at Baker Street and hadn't returned any of John's slightly frantic phone calls.

John had resorted to calling Mycroft, only to discover that the older Holmes didn't know where his brother had gone, or, if he did he wasn't telling John. At least Mycroft had been able to explain more fully why Moriarty was not to blame for Sherlock's previous disappearance. John was still finding it hard to believe that Moriarty was blameless in the matter but after speaking to both Mycroft and Sebastian in length he was willing to give the former criminal a chance. Sherlock had obviously believed in Moriarty; he had explained the situation to Mycroft and convinced his brother not to arrest Moriarty again; then he had slipped away and no one seemed to know where he'd gone.

By the end of the second week John had enough; he called Mycroft again and fifteen minutes later was forcing an irate policeman to leave his flat, then he threw the phone across the room and slammed the door after him as he stepped out into the street.

He had to talk to Sherlock, and there was one place he hadn't looked for the detective yet.

The graveyard was silent and empty, save for the ranks of headstones. John had felt close to Sherlock here during those two long years when he believed him to be dead; he'd spoken to Sherlock's gravestone more frequently than his family and he now knew that a good number of those one-sided conversations had not gone unheard.

"Sherlock," John rested his hand on the cool marble of the gravestone and tried not to remember the first time he had stood here, grieving at the loss of a friend, and begging for one last miracle. He'd gotten his miracle in the end, but had been to unwilling to let go of his pride to fully accept it. He'd been angry at being left behind, hurt because Sherlock hadn't trusted him and that had nearly cost Sherlock his life.

"I know I haven't talked to you in, well, far too long apparently, but I need you to listen to me. I'm not good at admitting my feelings; you know I sometimes find it difficult to admit when I care about someone." He laughed to hold back the tears that threatened to overwhelm him. "I guess we're more alike than you thought." There was silence for a moment; a silence full of words tumbling over themselves; needing to be spoken.

"I talked to Mycroft; Greg's going to work for him, hopefully he can keep Mycroft from starting a war." He laughed, again fighting back traitorous tears. "I still can't believe that Mycroft let himself fall in love. You know, I thought the entire Holmes family was against emotional attachment; people change I guess."

"Listen, I should have said this years ago, but I never thought-I didn't think you'd want to know. Sherlock, I've been falling in love with you since the day we met. You are the most annoying, ridiculous and lovable human being that I have ever met, and I wish I'd admitted it sooner. I was never in love with Mary; I want you to know that. You were gone and I was frantically trying to find something to hold onto, she took advantage of that, and the fact that I'm an idiot. I shouldn't have stayed with her, I'm sorry; I let you fool me into thinking that's what you wanted."

"This should never have happened. None of this would have happened if you hadn't been protecting me. When will you realize I don't want you to protect me? I just want you to love me." He stared at the polished gravestone, frowning slightly. "And you are standing right behind me, aren't you?"

John spun around; ready to be furious with Sherlock for worrying him, for walking away without saying goodbye, for any number of things he had done through the years but any thought of anger died after one look at Sherlock's face. Silent tears were streaming from his eyes and running down his face and for once he wasn't trying to hide his feelings behind a wall of indifference.

"John, forgive me, I never meant-I thought I was doing what was best for you."

John shook his head; not sure if he was amazed, puzzled, or just exasperated. "For a genius, you can be a complete idiot sometimes. Come here."  
Sherlock didn't hesitate and John found himself half-strangled by the force of his embrace; then Sherlock's lips were pressed against his and everything else became supremely unimportant.

"Love you," and it was easier to say than Sherlock had believed possible.

"I know and I promise I will never stop loving you back."

Sherlock Holmes cried; he loved; he_ felt_, and he was free.

_**A/N: There will be a short epilogue posted soon which will consist, mostly, of fluff. I promise I'm not being Moffat so please don't kill me :D **_


	2. Chapter 2

_**EPILOGUE! I'm still not Moffat, and this is still M rated and full of gay ships.**_

"Sherlock!" John was becoming extremely annoyed. "SHERLOCK HOLMES!"

"What?" Sherlock sounded incredibly bored and John made a mental note to confiscate all fire arms, preferably before he started shooting the wall again.

"We're going to be late."

"For what?" _I'm going to kill him; I am going to bloody kill him._

"We're supposed to be going to dinner." When there was no response he added, "With Mycroft, and Moriarty; is this ringing any bells?" John was frantically rummaging through the closet for a pair of shoes which were not covered in mud from one of Sherlock's _experiments._

"John."

"Look, I don't care that you forgot, just get ready, and please please_ please _WEAR PANTS THIS TIME!"

"John."

"WHAT!" John spun around, he was extremely close to losing his temper. Sherlock was not only wearing pants; he was wearing an impeccable suit, complete with bow-tie and he was holding a pair of John's dress shoes.

"I found your shoes," he said hopefully holding them out like peace offering.

John stared at him. "You remembered?" He frowned. "If you didn't forget about dinner then why are you giving puppy dog eyes?"

"I'm sorry for covering your shoes in mud." He was giving John a pathetically remorseful look and after a long moment of deciding rather to scream or laugh John burst out laughing. Sherlock looked supremely offended.

"Sorry," he coughed. "I'm still getting used to the fact that you apologize."

"Now who's making us late?" But Sherlock was smiling.

* * *

John hadn't really planned on his and Sherlock's first official date being dinner with a retired criminal and his sniper boyfriend especially when the whole event was being overseen by Mycroft and, for some reason Lestrade., but it proved to be much less awkward than he had anticipated. The food was good and the conversation, which had begun as slightly strained, was actually progressing well. Until Sherlock noticed Mycroft and Lestrade holding hands under the table.

_Well, _John thought feeling a tremendous sense of relief. _That certainly explains alot. _Moriarty leaned back in his chair and watched with extreme amusement as Sherlock's face slowly turned red.

"Mycroft?"

Mycroft smiled at his brother over his wine glass. "Yes, brother dear?"

"'_Caring is not an advantage_'?"

Mycroft's smile widened. "It would appear that I have been proved wrong."

Sebastian elbowed Jim in the ribs. "Pay up; you owe me a tenner."

"I never agreed to that." But the former criminal handed over the money.

Sebastian laid his head on his shoulder. "Don't be a sore loser, kitten."

Ten minutes later Sherlock almost choked when a slightly tipsy Lestrade leaned over and kissed Mycroft full on the mouth. Five minutes after that John could have sworn that Sherlock's hand brushed against his leg, and by the time the slightly scandalized looking waitress brought them the bill Mycroft and Greg weren't the only ones kissing.

* * *

They walked home through the midnight streets and Sherlock had his arm around John's waist.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" John looked up at the shadowy outline of Sherlock's face and saw that the detective seemed lost in contemplation.

"This isn't the way to Baker Street."

"No, it isn't."

Obviously Sherlock wasn't going to give out any information so John focused on walking in a straight line, until he realized where they were. The outline of Bart's Hospital loomed up in front of them and John felt a sudden surge of panic. He had refused to come back here since the day-that day that would stand out in his memory forever; the day he lost Sherlock.

"Sherlock, what-what are we doing here?" He blamed the tremor in his voice on the wine he'd drunk at dinner.

Sherlock pushed him away gentle and reached into his jacket pocket. They were standing in front of the building now; on the same paving stones were John had believed Sherlock to be lying dead and broken nearly three years previously.

"John," Sherlock's voice was serious and John stared at him in shock when he suddenly dropped to one knee on the cold paving stones. "We met here, remember? Then I lost you here; I thought it was only right that this was were I should ask you."

"Ask me, what?"

"John Hamish Watson, you are the other half of my soul; the heart I never knew I had, and I never want to lose you again." He pulled a simple, silver ring out of his pocket and held it out to John. "Will you stay with me for the rest of our lives? John, will you marry me?"

John stared at Sherlock's outstretched hand and the ring that gleamed in his palm. "For a genius you can be a complete idiot sometimes, Sherlock."

"Is that a no?"

"Shut up." John took the ring and slipped it onto his finger. "I could never say no to you; I love you, Sherlock."

* * *

They woke the next morning in a tangle of sheets, bodies pressed together, and hands intertwined. John laid his head against Sherlock's chest and smile; this was right; this was love and he was never letting go. He snuggled closer to Sherlock and felt Sherlock's arm tighten around him in response.

"John?"

"Sherlock?"

"I don't want to make a speech."

John smiled into Sherlock's neck. "I don't want to plan a wedding."

"Sherlock?"

"John?"

"Don't ever change."

"I love you too, John."

_**And it's over! Hope you enjoyed and FYI I did my research and same sex marriage is legal in Britain affective March 29 2014. See, Moffat? This is completely possible!**_


End file.
